


First Step Is the Hardest

by celeste9



Category: Primeval
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Nightmares, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:30:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celeste9/pseuds/celeste9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their arrangement is a fragile thing. Just how fragile it really is becomes even more clear when Lester has a nightmare and Becker finds himself failing to be of any use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Step Is the Hardest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knitekat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knitekat/gifts).



> This is a belated offering for knitekat's birthday, for the prompt 'Lester/Becker, don't go'. I hope you like it, late as it is! And I suppose it's fitting that this pairing should break me out of my writing drought. *g* Also for Primeval bingo 'dreams and nightmares' and hc_bingo 'trust issues'. Thank you to fififolle for kindly checking it over for me.

Becker awoke suddenly. He kept still, uncertain for a moment as to what had startled him. His fingers itched to reach for his knife, but then he remembered he wasn’t in his own bed. Lester was rather adamant on the stance that knives didn’t belong in the bedroom.

Lester.

Becker realised what had woken him. He rolled over and pressed his fingers gently to Lester’s shoulder.

“James,” he said. “James, you’re having a nightmare.”

Lester thrashed a few seconds more and then his eyes opened wide. He stared at Becker, panting. His skin was damp with sweat, hair sticking to his temples.

Stroking him in a soothing manner, Becker said quietly, “It’s all right, it was only a bad dream. You’re safe. I’m here, yeah?”

Instead of calming down as Becker had hoped, Lester sprang into a seated position, pushing Becker away. His gaze flickered from place to place, unable to settle on anything - and determinedly not moving to Becker.

“James,” Becker said. He sat up as well, though he made no further attempt to touch Lester.

Lester had raised a faintly shaking hand to his face, pushing tendrils of sweaty hair back from his forehead. His breathing was gradually easing back into a more measured rate.

Becker pulled his knees up to his chest. They sat in silence.

The room was dark, only the faintest sliver of moonlight seeping in from between the closed curtains. The window was open, letting in a cool breeze along with the noise of the London streets at night from far below.

It couldn’t have been later than one in the morning. Another day at the ARC awaited them, carrying the promise of adventure and danger and utter insanity as the ARC always did. They needed to take advantage of the opportunity to sleep when they could.

Becker wondered if he should leave.

Their… arrangement (he couldn’t call it a relationship, if he called it a relationship then he might panic and ruin it, or Lester might remember that he could do so, so much better, or they might both come to their senses and realise that dating colleagues was always a very, very bad idea) was a fragile thing. They hadn’t put a name to it. They didn’t talk about it.

But Becker fell asleep in Lester’s bed at least a few nights a week, and most of those nights he woke up there the next morning. Sometimes they shared meals and sometimes they went out together, and Lester made Becker laugh more than he ever would have thought possible.

They laughed together, but they didn’t talk. Not about anything that mattered. Sometimes Becker stood in the ARC looking at Lester’s office, looking at Lester seated behind his desk, and thought about what he would say if they were real, if this thing of theirs was something steady and firm. He thought about how he could tell Lester when he had been scared, scared that he would lose someone, scared that he would make a mistake. He thought about how he could tell Lester what it felt like when he got to an anomaly too late, when he saw the bodies, or when he felt the life leave someone. Someone he knew, someone he didn’t. He thought about how maybe Lester would sit with him, shoulders brushing, or maybe…

Except they didn’t do that. Becker wasn’t sure what Lester would do if he tried. Maybe end it. Maybe all he wanted was something fun and easy.

Or maybe Becker was just worried about how Lester would look at him if he presented anything less than a solid front, if he appeared anything less than the capable SAS captain he was supposed to be.

It wasn’t like Lester confided his own concerns to Becker. He could generally tell when Lester was in a mood - it wasn’t difficult - or when something had gone wrong, but that was as far as it went. Lester complained within Becker’s earshot from time to time but he never really said how he _felt._ He kept family photographs and children’s artwork in his flat but he wouldn’t tell Becker about any of it.

Becker supposed neither of them trusted the other, really. He didn’t trust Lester not to leave and Lester didn’t trust him to… well, whatever it was Lester thought he would or wouldn’t do.

Lester didn’t even trust him enough to tell him about a bloody nightmare. Becker almost wanted to laugh.

Becker turned his head a little to watch Lester. His shoulders were tense, bunched high towards his ears. He still wasn’t looking anywhere near Becker, instead gazing out at the window. He didn’t look like a man inclined to relax any time soon, or to go back to sleep.

What had he dreamed about? Becker wondered what Lester was frightened of. Did he fear the creatures they encountered at the ARC? Was he afraid for himself or for his team, or did he worry that the anomalies would find his family? Perhaps it wasn’t that at all. Perhaps he had some sort of phobia, or a recurring nightmare that lingered from his childhood. Maybe he relived painful memories, recent ones or not so recent ones.

_Trust me,_ Becker wanted to say. _Let me in. Let me help you._ Only he couldn’t make himself form the words. _I think I might love you,_ he thought. _Or I could, if you would let me._

Except to do that, Becker knew he had to let Lester in, too. He had to open himself up the same way, let Lester see him, and trust that Lester wouldn’t hurt him.

“I think I should leave,” Becker said instead, because he had never been that kind of brave. “Maybe you’ll sleep better without me bothering you. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you at the ARC.”

Feeling stupid and uncomfortable and self-conscious, Becker set his feet onto the floor and walked around the bed to find his clothes. The night air felt chilled and his skin was prickling with goosebumps, outside the warmth of Lester’s duvet and his ridiculously high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets (worth every sodding penny).

Lester’s hand snaked out quick as could be and latched around Becker’s arm.

Becker stopped, staring at the way Lester’s fingers were curled around the bones of Becker’s wrist.

“Don’t go,” Lester said.

Becker’s eyes snapped to Lester’s face. Before Lester dropped his gaze, Becker was able to read the desperation there, the shamed neediness.

Lester released Becker’s wrist. He folded his hands in his lap and looked away.

“Okay,” Becker said, and got back into bed. He didn’t let himself look at Lester’s face, even though he wanted to. He wondered what was there. He wondered if Lester felt as relieved as Becker did, or as nervous.

This time, when Becker tugged Lester in close beside him, Lester exhaled softly and relaxed into him. He didn’t pull away.

As far as first steps went, Becker thought, this was pretty painless.

**_End_ **


End file.
